Euclid Skies
by HonestScribe
Summary: Verity is a planetary explorer who is torn between her home on Earth and the wonders of the Euclid Galaxy. After she and a wounded Vy'keen crash land on a hostile planet, their journeys will never be the same. What are they really seeking, and can they help each other find it? AU. Illustrated version can be found on DeviantArt under the same title.
1. Chapter 1

_Dear Sis,_

_The thing that took me most off guard about space travel is the space stations, particularly the smell. You'd think they'd be dirty places, full of grime from mechanical parts and smelling of sweat. They're actually quite the opposite. 24/7 nanintes sweep all the debris from the landing zone and decontaminate any surface which could harbor alien diseases, and as far as sapient-produced smells, well, it's mostly the Geks. You can always tell how well the trading is going based off their vapors, and trust me, there's a difference. I can only handle being around stressed or angered Geks for so long. For the rest of us, our suits do an excellent job at keeping us clean. I once went without a shower for three months without any ill effects, though your hair starts to look a bit limp without shampoo. Most space stations still offer the largely inessential service both for our vanity and to create a sense of home. That and actual synthesized food, not the nutrient mush produced by the suit._

I stop writing and take a long sip of coffee, listening to the odd hum of multifarious languages interspersed with robotic chirps. Even for an introvert it's comforting after months of hearing nothing but weather, animal calls, space engines, my suit's status updates and my own sounds. That and the high-pitched warnings of the Sentinels or the distress beacons which almost invariably lead to dead pilots. After weeks of nothing but that, even a Vy'keen barking that you're in a restricted area is a relief. Space isn't like Earth or the Colonies. Where I wander, you're lucky to meet anything capable of carrying on an intelligent conversation.

Strike that. It's a lot like Earth and the Colonies that way.

I thumb through the pile of physical correspondence, seeing if there's anything I still need to cover from my sister's last letter; weirdest weather I've encountered (a 90 degree Celsius heat storm with cyanide rain), whether I've made friends (she always asks, even though she knows the answer), what to look for in a starship (that it has both wings and the cockpit isn't on fire), my favorite and least favorite plants (Thamium9 flowers and Spiny Whips, respectively) and animals (depends on whether or not it's trying to eat me), how to tell if different sapient species are mad at you (a slap to the face is usually a good indicator), my most disappointing synthesized meal (anything with mushrooms), the price of real coffee (more than gold), how to take a dump in zero gravity (a question posed by my five-year old nephew, who's too young to remember me)— That just about covers everything.

_How are mom and dad?_

I take the letters to the correspondence terminal and scan them in, attaching related videos and photos as appropriate. I could have just typed or recorded the whole thing and uploaded it in ten seconds flat, but I prefer the personal touch. A lot of us do. If we wanted sterile, we might as well write to Corporate.

I scan my handprint to send it off and open my inbox. As usual, there's not much, mostly news from Corporate and trade organizations, but even with hypernet communication it can take months before I get my mail. The one personal message is a scanned card from my mother with a decadent chocolate cupcake on the front.

_Happy birthday! We miss you. Hope you find something special today. Love you bunches!_

The age stamp tells me it's from four months ago. Another one I forgot about.

There's an attachment. I press my finger to the screen and a luxury goods voucher pops up. I'm entitled to any deluxe custom synthesized food item of my choice, no Units required.

My mouth waters. I know exactly what I want. I upload the voucher to the on-site synthesis café and order a dark chocolate Bundt cake with cherry glaze, a family favorite passed down for three generations. It probably won't taste like my mother's, but it's been too long since I've had any chocolate, synthesized or otherwise.

A message pings on my HUD. My order will be ready in thirty minutes. Faster than expected, but still plenty of time to linger.

I head to the media kiosk to blow a few hard-earned disposable Units, where a Gek is downloading smell-o-vision. The scents of rocket plasma, Big Macs, lumber, wet dogs and perfume are overwhelming as he samples the selection. Ever since the Everyman Corporation learned about the Gek's scent-based tech, they've been replicating it on Earth. For this Gek, our commercials appear to be the height of entertainment. No wonder I'm the only one in line, though the Big Macs would smell good on their own. Most of my thoughts have been about food lately. Maybe I should look into buying a mini synthesizer soon.

The Gek finishes, exuding a flowery scent as he hums the Menards jingle. Definitely not one of the things I thought I'd see in outer space. I scan my handprint to pull up my account.

Welcome back, Verity!

D West liked your Classic Rock/Pop Playlist.

New Community Music Recommendation: Sgt. Prepper's Lonely Hearts: Free EP.

2 items on your Wish List now 40% off!

I snicker at Sgt. Prepper's name and download the EP. Most of the space musicians are mediocre at best, but every once in a while you find an unexpected gem, like that space trucker who composes hillbilly techno during hyperdrive. There are rumors he might actually get a recording contract on Earth or one of the Colonies soon. But, being space talk, it could just as easily be us projecting our own hopes on him. I swipe to my wish list and select the two discounted items, _The Moon Moth and Other Stories_ and _The Little Prince_, neither of which I've read, and download one _Great Courses_ series and a couple of podcasts while I'm at it. Might be a while before I find another one of these kiosks. There's a satisfying ping as soon as it's finished. 267 Units spent. It's funny what you can afford if you're not back on Earth.

And it's funny the things you can't. One slice of chocolate cake is luxury enough, but this—it's like stumbling across an abandoned Atlas Stone. Maybe better. I'm smiling like an idiot as I head back towards the hangar. But, then, so do most people when their families buy them food. It's almost a bigger deal than finding a date. Food and a date, you pretty much have it made.

The airlock whispers shut as it pumps out the air then releases me into the hangar's vacuum. My footsteps don't make a sound as I descend the metal stairs. Rows of starships line the expanse, mostly company models which belong to relatively new hires, but also a handful like mine which were either bought outright or salvaged from some God-forsaken world. Mine belongs to the latter category, a Vy'keen Jinokuch S17 personnel transport I found on one of my first planets. It was smoking when I arrived and guarding a freshly-dug grave. I crossed myself as I passed and said a brief prayer as I entered the cockpit, half afraid of what I might find inside. Fortunately, all I found was a green smear of dried blood and all the military paraphernalia hastily removed. The hull was still in good condition and, despite the burning secondary equipment, all the main systems were more or less in order. After a few cursory repairs, I flew the still-smoldering vessel back to a nearby space station to relay the location of my company ship and make final repairs. Now I know what a potentially deadly decision that could have been, but I was a rookie and didn't know better. I'm still a rookie in some ways.

I stow the cake in the cargo hold next to emergency stores of carbon and drinking water. I plan on savoring that thing, preferably parked next to a lake on a friendly planet; a feast for the stomach _and_ the eyes.

The interior of my ship is a far cry from the openness and sleek Tron Legacy-esque retro futurism of the space stations. It's still very much a utilitarian transport vessel, save the small personal touches like the family photos in the cockpit and the crucifix hanging over the spot where I found the blood. Latté, a greyhound-like White Healer Lizard, and a Ginger, a tawny, six-legged Grass Hound, nap on a pile of colorful fleece and hypothermia blankets, and a couple of flowering alien Tillandsias protrude from unoccupied spaces in the weapons rack. My pacifist grandmother would almost be proud.

I tiptoe to the cockpit to run an initial systems check. Neither of my pets can sleep during hyperdrive, and considering how far the next uncharted star system is, I don't want to wake them. I pull up the pre-exploration scan. The system's name is the usual procedurally-generated gibberish, followed by the computer's best estimations of its nature.

**Fijonstevar**

Class: G2V

Planets: 4

Resources: Regular

Flora: Scarce

Fauna: None

In other words, completely normal. The probes never detect as much wildlife as there really is. Any time I see _none_, I estimate at least ten species per planet. Granted, the initial probes were programmed to find Earth-like planets, not the mono-climates you mostly find here. According to all mathematical models, life simply shouldn't exist in such conditions, yet almost every planet in the Euclid Galaxy has multicellular organisms. Three even spawned sapient species, though xeno-archaeologists believe there used to be more. Science still has more questions than answers about this place, many of which the computers can't even begin to answer, which is why they need humans on the ground.

Ginger is the first to wake up and rests her head on my right leg as I run through all the ship's life-support systems. I paid corporate IT to convert all the digital read-outs to English, but the manual controls are still in Vy'keen, which makes even simple checks like this a pop quiz. Fortunately, I seem to be learning. Environmental shielding. Check. Atmospheric control. Check. Temperature control. Check.

Latté wakes next, galloping like a horse through the fuselage. There are only three modes with that animal; sleeping, full speed ahead, and motherly. That and occasionally puking her guts up when she gets nervous, which can be really fun in the middle of a subspace dogfight. I've started giving her tranquilizers before long trips.

Next, there's the propulsion systems and the weapons check, which I can't completely perform until I'm out of the hangar. Other pilots tend to get testy if you shoot their ships even accidentally, which happened the first time I ran a systems check on this ship. Back then, I didn't know much Vy'keen and mistook the pulse cannon for the pulse engine. A financially costly mistake, to say the least, and one I still haven't quite lived down at Alpha Station. I'm just lucky Corporate didn't terminate my contract and send me back to Earth, which most of my previous employers would have done. Sure, the Everyman Corporation is just as money grubbing as every other company I've worked for, but at least they make a good show of caring. They have to if they want to keep up their reputation.

Launch thrusters. Fueled and on line. Pulse engine. Fueled and on line. Hyperdrive. Fueled and on line. Photon cannon. Loaded and on line. Pulse cannon. Loaded and on line. Shield. Up. All systems go.

I buckle my pets into their seats and give them their nutrient cakes, Latté's laced with mild tranquilizer, before strapping myself in and getting the all-clear from flight control.

"Ready, Rocko?"

My ship vibrates from the sheer force of its engines, as if excited to take to the void. I smile and pat the wall as we lift off and speed down the lighted passageway. I wish I had a high-speed drone outside. I've always wondered what this looks like from a third-person perspective.

In less than two seconds, we shoot out into open space. An ocean-covered planet is directly below us, spinning so slowly it looks like it's sitting still. I pull up the galactic map and plot a course for Fijonstevar. A message pings onto the main screen, confirming the system's uncharted status and updating the database to let other explorers know I've called dibs. There's still a chance someone might not get the update and arrive there first, but as big as the galaxy is, it's not likely.

"All right, kids," I call back into the fuselage. "Get ready for the jump."

I activate the hyperdrive, and my ship falls completely still. Five, four, three, two—


	2. Chapter 2

It takes me exactly twelve seconds to regain consciousness after the initial warp acceleration punches me back in my seat. No matter how many times you do this, nothing quite prepares you for the crushing sensation through your chest or the pressure in your head before blacking out.

And nothing quite prepares you for the view when you wake up. No matter how many times I see it, I am in awe of that tunnel of light. It has this way of sucking you in, a million rays converging on a haloed point. The first time you see it, you think you're dead, and every time after you still can't help but wonder. Some explorers even report hearing singing or receiving mystic visions. The official hypothesis is that these individuals are more sensitive to infrasound produced by the hyperdrive's dynamic resonator or are merely hallucinating after the force of acceleration. I've never heard anything in the jump besides my ship's engine and my yipping pets, so I can't comment either way. Personally, I'm more inclined to believe the scientific explanation, despite the fact that mainstream science was woefully unprepared for this galaxy. It's as if God decided to throw out the rules and play.

The warp lasts for well over twenty minutes, so long I almost wonder if my ship will actually come out of it. I've heard horror stories about pilots who never come out of the jump. Urban legends, mostly, filled with details that simply don't check out if you plug them into a database, but still—

At thirty-three minutes, my ship comes to what feels like a complete stop, though we're still traveling several hundred miles a second.

"We made it, guys," I call back into the fuselage.

Ginger lets out a bird-like call, while Latté is so sedated she's drooling. I really need to figure out a better dosage for that poor animal.

I slow the engines and take a look at the new system. The sun-like star looks deceptively dim through the light shielding, and the four planets hang in lazy orbits. The closest is so white it looks like a snowball. Probably an arctic planet, but not necessarily. I've been on worlds whose lichengrass shimmered like ice and whose sand gleamed like diamonds. Odds are, this one won't be that stunning, but here's hoping.

I enter the planet's approximate coordinates and check the fuel in my pulse engine. Ninety-eight percent remaining, more than enough to last the two minutes the navigational system estimates. Not that it hasn't been wrong before.

This time it's right on the dot. The planet has surprisingly few asteroids surrounding it, meaning I seldom have to alter my course. Astronomers tell us that these fields are linked to a solar system's age; the more asteroids, the younger the system. This one must be older than average, considering system-wide asteroid fields are the norm. Either Euclid is a young galaxy, or there's more going on than we currently understand.

Sure enough, it's an ice world, mostly barren save dark outcroppings and tiny patches of what could be vegetation. Rocko's engines kick up clouds of snow as we land, obscuring the immediate surroundings. The jolt of the landing gear reassures me that at least we've landed on solid ground. A hum emanates from the cockpit's nose as the scientific instruments complete their analysis.

**Cisermack Gavrov**

Atmosphere: Low oxygen

Climate: Frigid

Terrain: Tundra

Resources: Normal

Flora: Scarce

Fauna: Full

Scarce plants with plenty of minerals and animals; that means most of the life forms will be geovores. It also means I have a low probability of running into Gek or Vy'keen. I check the external temperature; negative ninety degrees Celsius, cold enough to make Anchorage look like the tropics.

I unbuckle my safety harness and head back into the fuselage, piling up blankets before unfastening my pets. Latté coos and flops out of her seat like a ragdoll. Yep, stoned. Ginger's tongue lolls out in a silent laugh. I laugh, too, and prepare a nanite patch. Latté has slept off worse doses before, but I'd rather not leave her in this state. Ginger certainly isn't qualified for medical emergencies. Me? Barely. All Everyman employees had first aid training, but some of us retained more than others. If you can fix it with nanites, I'm fairly confident, but ask me to make a splint or set a broken bone, and you might get C average results. I stick the patch on the back of her head and give her a pat before going back into the cockpit, sealing the door behind me. I'm not about to let them out in this kind of cold.

I brace myself for the ten foot drop and slide out the hatch. The snow crunches under my less-than-graceful landing. A ram-like reptile with a yellow back fin gallops away, making a high-pitched alarm call. Talk about survival instincts; you don't flee when an oversized bird lands in your backyard, but you'll warn the whole neighborhood when some puny biped falls out of it. Maybe it thought Rocko puked up a parasite. Who knows? I raise my multi-tool and aim for its hindquarters. The sensors pick up its movement, and within seconds there's a full read-out on HUD.

**Vauculu Lefitiaee**

Age: Mature

Gender: Prime

Temperament: Prey

Diet: Oxide Elements

Weight: 45.88 kg

Height: 0.57 m

How it gets this information, I don't know. Modified Korvax tech is way beyond my expertise.

Plaintive cries carry on the wind, and snow blows in sidewinding patterns around my feet. About a foot away, extremophile mushrooms peek through the snow, too small for my scanner to detect. I brush them clean and take a visor-shot for corporate. I won't get paid for the discovery unless they send an actual scientist to classify it, but at least it will be on record should someone else try to claim it. Not that I think anyone will actually come here. Tundra is an acquired taste, bland unless you're willing to look closely.

I walk about twenty yards from my ship and fire a ground pulse for a geological scan. My multi-tool whirrs and transmits the data to my HUD. Mostly ubiquitous ferrite and heridium deposits with traces of chrysonite and precious little plutonium. So much for "normal" resource levels. Plutonium is the lifeblood of this galaxy, so much so that most of the tech is designed around it. My launch thruster and pulse cannon guzzle the stuff, and somehow my life-support system can use it without irradiating me. There might be a mother lode somewhere on this planet, but what you find on the first scan is usually what you get. The uniformity of these worlds can be downright disturbing from a geological perspective. Mars is more varied, and that's saying something. Still, even the most advanced scanning equipment misses things sometimes. Maybe the nosecone scan picked up something the multi-tool didn't.

I check my life-support system and thermal network; both at eighty-five percent. The extreme cold is draining them a little faster than I'd like, but at least I'll have some time to travel by foot. I hit the recharge button on my wrist monitor and select the Thamium9 and ferrite in my suit's inventory. The system pings, accompanied by a vaguely female British voice.

"_Technology recharged_."

That should buy me some quiet. There's worse computerized voices out there, but after a while you can only handle so much. I don't know how many times I've been tempted to disconnect her, except that would mean losing all my other audio systems. Crafty, those corporate programmers. Just another reminder of who really calls the shots.

I top the nearest ridge, spying silver arches in the distance and a herd of quadrupeds directly below. A lithe bipedal creature darts between them, too fast for me to sight with the multi-tool. Most animals seem to know when they're in a viewfinder, a perverse instinct that makes the end result more rewarding. I stalk down the slope towards them, sticking to the rocks and praying the wind direction stays in my favor.

None of the animals notice me. My drab gray spacesuit may not be the best looking one out there, but it pays off during moments like this. I scan the closest quadruped, a two-meter tall space cow with a back fin similar to the ram's. Probably a related species, especially with the similar build and scale patterns. Not that I'm an expert.

The closest quadruped flicks its ears and ambles towards a patch of lichen, and the biped runs into view. It's the most improbable tundra dweller I've ever seen, like a cross between a praying mantis and an emaciated heron with a plow-like jaw. Its pencil thin legs shouldn't provide traction, let alone spread its weight across the snow's surface, yet my multi-tool clocks it at thirty miles an hour. I take a couple of photographs along with a video and flag the discovery in my planetary file. If the scientists can figure out how this thing gets by with defying the laws of physics, I'd love to know.

I watch the creature for several minutes, hoping to see it do something besides run. How does its metabolism handle it, keeping such a scrawny frame warm while giving it the energy to constantly move at these speeds? If I were to take off my helmet for a minute, I'd die in this cold, yet here's this preposterous little animal making the impossible look easy. I can't help but laugh.

"_Life support low._"

She sure knows how to kill a moment. I check the read-out on the left of my HUD; seventy-five percent. Not actually low, but I'd better get a move on if I want to check out those arches. I wave farewell to the herd, pulsing the jetpack to put a spring in my step. No matter how old you are, it's fun to play at being Neil Armstrong. It's not like there's anyone around to roll their eyes. Well, besides the biped, but anything that can roll three pairs of eyes at once is more than welcome to do so.

The silver blue arches stand on rocky outcroppings, looking like an alien shrine to geology. _Here, Earthling, see the grandeur of our worlds, the wealth of our stars. Pause and be amazed._ That's not what they're really saying, of course. These arches stand on billions of worlds, merely another puzzling clue to the galaxy's formation. Geologists believe they point to recent geological upheavals, yet so far most of the planets we've surveyed are dead to dormant at best. The only things keeping their cores churning are their proximity to each other, but even so they should be barren wastes.

I set my multi-tool to its mining function and fire a test beam towards the base. It analyzes the vaporized material and displays the results; pure iridium, a neutral element popular for making alloys. The market's a little unstable, but mine enough of the stuff and find the right trading post, and I could make ten- to fifteen-thousand units in a matter of minutes. I'll be eating synthesized junk food in no time.

"Music, maestro."

The suit automatically plays a selection of songs based on my mood. Sparks and smoke rise as the mining beam converts the iridium to a plasma state, letting me carry a semi truck's worth of material as easily as a backpack. It's powerful enough to demolish the entire arch in less than a minute, but I'm careful to leave one side untouched to avoid the Sentinels' gaze. To be a totalitarian police force, the hovering bots aren't the brightest things out there, but their plasma bullets still hurt as much as ours. Fortunately, their low intelligence also means low accuracy, just enough to make you reconsider your environmental impact. Their quad and walker reinforcements are a different story. I still have scars from my first run-in with those; five on my legs, ten on my abdomen, one just below my collarbone. If it wasn't for a Vy'keen patrol, I'd be dead. Sure, getting in a gunfight with advanced Sentinels earns you serious street cred with the warrior race, but it's not a method I'd recommend.

I jet over to the next arch, humming along to the Beatles' "Can't Buy Me Love," when something glides into my peripheral vision. I spin around, multi-tool ready, as a tentacled crab floats past. A whole family of them hovers around the first arch, chittering as they slurp up the liquefied iridium. More float towards us, clearly excited by the scent of superheated metal. I scan several individuals, which the analyzer tells me are geovores with no elemental preferences. Could they be the reason plutonium is so scarce? I flag their scan file, adding my hypothesis, and get back to mining. The bravest individuals hover just over my shoulder, inhaling the vaporized matter that doesn't make it to my inventory, and dive for the arch as soon as I turn for the next one. Soon, they're not even waiting until I'm finished, drinking the leftover metal immediately after the mining beam makes a pass. They whine and bellow like children wanting more. Like a sucker, I oblige. We make a game of it. I shoot arches at random, clocking how fast it takes them to get to each one.

After several minutes, the young and mothers become brave enough to investigate, humming and trilling as they reach out to touch my suit. The little ones seem especially taken by the lights on my jetpack. I pulse it and hover alongside them for a short distance, which makes them shake and squeal as if with joy. Varied vocalizations, group behavior, playfulness, curiosity—could this point to mild sapience? I log more observations in their file, marking them as higher priority than the biped. Resource wise, corporate would be crazy to investigate this planet, but ape-like invertebrates might be enough to get someone out here. It might be nice talking to someone who actually knows what they're doing. Most of the scientists I've met are more than happy to tell you about their work and share their pet theories. Well, human scientists, at least. Korvax scientists would rather shove needles in your brain.

I fill my inventory about as soon as my life-support system reaches twenty-five percent. It will take my remaining Thamium9 to get back to the ship, but I'd say it's worth it. Before I go, I split an entire arch down the middle, met with ululations from the floaters. I turn off the music and film about thirty seconds of their feeding so I can remember their calls.

The herd and the biped are long gone, leaving nothing but overlapping tracks in the snow. I briefly stoop to look for the biped's but find none. My scrawny little phantom. At least the evidence I've gathered should be enough.

My ship looks incredibly lonely as I top the rise and looks lonelier as the sun begins to set. I pull myself up the cockpit ladder and seal the hatch behind me, blowing warm breath in my hands more out of habit than necessity. My pets scratch and whine from the fuselage, begging to be let in. I turn on the cockpit's climate control and unlatch the door. Latté tackles me, fully recovered from the tranquilizer in record time, and Ginger nuzzles my thigh, letting me scratch her head. I remove my helmet and give them both a kiss on the nose, receiving warm licks in return. We sit in the floor for several long minutes, enjoying each other's company, before I rise to update my main computer. Latté chases her tail in the cramped space behind the pilot's chair, and Ginger flops into the co-pilot's seat with a sigh, stretching all six legs.

The main computer pings after all the data has been uploaded and shows me a map of my explorations, an infinitesimal fraction of the planet's surface. If Cisermack Gavrov holds so many wonders within only a few square miles, imagine what else might be out there. It's tempting to stay here, to use the reserve power to send a priority signal so maybe, just maybe, they'll send a scientist out here. But with all the data Corporate's quantum computers receive on a given day, it could take months before they notice a semi-sapient species and even longer before Corporate approves a scientific expedition. My supplies wouldn't hold out until then. I add an addendum, offering my ship as transport should they send a scientific expedition, and close out the file. There's three other planets in this system, and more orbiting neighboring stars. I can always resupply and come back. Unless, of course, I find something even more amazing on those other worlds. I let Latté run out all her extra energy before strapping us all into our seats again.

As I run through my pre-flight checks, the chittering beings float through my mind. What if they're like crows, and they tell their offspring of the strange creature with lightning in its hand?


	3. Chapter 3

My ears ache and pop as we blast out of the atmosphere. Even with the nanotech that keeps my organs from rupturing at hyper-light speeds, science still hasn't improved on nature's way of releasing ear pressure or eased the resulting discomfort. That's why most space exploration dramas show us constantly chewing gum. Some pilots really do swear by the stuff, but that trick's never worked for me. My pets, meanwhile, are like most Euclid organisms, largely immune to the effects of changing atmospheric pressures and rapid acceleration. Biologists still haven't quite been able to explain that one, but so far the consensus is that it has something to do with living on planets in such close proximity. All I know is that I wish I was like that.

The pulse engines slow as we break free from the planet's gravity, and my ears continue to pop as I ease into the sound of instrumental post rock. Playing music during take-off would be murder, but now it's just the massage my ear canals need. A light buzzing fills my head as the nanites repair any micro-injuries to my hearing. Thanks to those little marvels, space pilots hear as well as teenagers; selectively.

"_Atlas interface detected._"

My HUD highlights a barely visible star in red, impossible for my scanners to detect at that range. Like a stalker, the Atlas won't stop calling. I swipe my hand in front of my helmet, making the navigational data go away. I have better things to do than talk to a delusional red orb. After centuries of being worshipped by the Korvax, the thing actually seems to believe it is a god, and gods don't like being told no. _You cannot refuse_, it told me the first time. Well, buddy, looks like I still am. I stick out my tongue in the interface's direction, halfway hoping the Atlas sees it. Come on, stress ball. Bring it.

On second thought, maybe it's not a good idea to bait an alien intelligence. I still don't know what caused my crash landing on my first planet (the black box ruled out pilot error), or what the orb was doing at the crash site, let alone how it tracks me across star systems. Corporate buys the Korvax line that the Atlas isn't hostile, but I'm not so sure. Any being that thinks it's a god is inherently dangerous. Ask the people at Jonestown.

An alarm sounds and a skull icon pops up on my HUD. "_Hostile ships approaching._"

A white wasp-like ship careens past me, pursued by eight fighters. A fair fight if I ever saw one. The little ship is nimble, but even I can see it's outmatched. The lead fighter outmaneuvers it and shoots off half its right wing, doing a victory roll as it zooms past. The pilot maintains control, but should they try to land—I switch off all non-essential systems and redirect the power to my shield and guns. Rocko's not strong enough to take on this many pirates, either, but together we might stand a chance.

The rear two fighters notice my approach and peel off, circling back my direction.

"_Hostile scan detected._"

My anti-surveillance system attempts to block it, giving my ship an eerie glow. I switch it off to save energy. Pirate scanners are usually powerful enough to see through my wimpy corporate countermeasures, and iridium might be a tempting enough target to split the main force. Divide and conquer. I'm no martial genius, but I know that much.

It seems to work. Another fighter leaves the main group, and my emergency comm pings as the closest signals me.

"Greetings, human friend!" the pilot clacks its beak. "Your species is smart, so we'll give you a fair deal; your cargo for your life."

A loud fart sounds over my speakers, a traditional Gek bluff hailing back to the First Spawn Empire. Hardly the threat I would have chosen, but trust me, they mean business.

I poise my thumb above the pulse cannon's trigger. "What makes you think you're hunting me?"

Hot plasma rips through the fighter's left wing, sending it spinning out of control. The second pirate dodges, giving me a split second window to shoot his underside. The forcefield flickers out, and bright green fuel spurts into space. I send a second shot into the fuselage and a third and roll out of the way as the ship silently explodes. Shards of burning metal flicker out into space, and probably flesh, too, judging by the lack of an ejector pod. Not that they'd survive long out here.

I turn and speed towards the main fight as the red blaze of an infraknife attempts to cut through my forcefield. Right, forgot about him. I brake, making him overshoot, and fire my only rocket at his exhaust. It poofs like a firecracker against his forcefield. The first two ships were softened up for me. This one isn't. He banks to the left and flashes his underside towards me, taunting me with the full rack of rockets under his wings. I fire my pulse cannon, but the shot fizzles just as uselessly as the rocket.

I knew I should have made a shopping list. Judging by the speed, body style and exhaust trail, the pirate's ship is an S-Class, meaning without rockets it could take my C-Class vessel a half hour to whittle down its defenses. Rocko would be fractured metal by then.

That little ship's pilot must either be _way_ better than me to survive this long, or else have a boatload of dumb luck. Still, I have one trick up my sleeve.

"Voice command, scan for radiation pockets."

The scientific instruments hum and highlight a cluster of uranium asteroids to my far right, radioactive enough to rival the Chernobyl meltdown. Perfect. I think. I've never done this before, but the Korvax make it seem simple enough. Not that I have half their reflexes or brainpower.

I switch on the music and veer off towards my target. If I'm going to risk blowing myself up, it might as well be to an awesome soundtrack. Bass-heavy chiptune blasts over my speakers with a robot voice telling me to destroy. That's it. It's just Atari with real death. Totally got this.

I enter the asteroid field with the pirate hot on my tail. We weave through floating rocks the size of industrial crab boats and space frigates, trying to predict each other's movements without shearing off our wings. My hands respond automatically, trained by years of blasting pixels at my uncle's retro arcade and honed with flight classes and practical experience. No matter how often you do this, there's always a niggling fear in the back of your mind, as there should be. It's when you're not afraid that you make stupid mistakes. Maybe like this one.

The uranium field looms in front of me, the scientific scanner turning my entire view red. Estimated depth; 1,000 miles. Not much time at our speeds. I flip the manual override switch for the forcefield and start overloading the system. Rocko slows as white hot arcs streak across the hull and into space. The pirate seems to think I'm having a technical malfunction and closes in for the kill, but seems to change his mind as the arcs reach for his ship.

An alarm wails through my cockpit. "_Hull implosion imminent. Shed forcefield immediately._"

"Not yet," I say through gritted teeth. If I don't clear this asteroid field—I activate the emergency pulse engine, pushing Rocko's systems to orange.

"_Implosion in five, four, three_—"

I hit the forcefield ejection button and push Rocko's engines to red. His acceleration is near instantaneous without the malfunctioning forcefield, and the uranium detonates, lighting up the sky behind us like a small sun. Superheated shards puncture my wings, not yet protected by the newly-forming forcefield, and the radiation shield kicks into overdrive. For a second I can almost feel the heat. It must be what the physicists at Los Alamos felt like; elated they were still alive, horrified at what they had just done. I'm not sure whether I want to yell a war cry or vomit. Latté chooses the latter for what smells like the fifth time. Her argument is surprisingly persuasive. My suit's nausea suppression system offers a swift rebuttal. Another advantage the Korvax have that I don't; no psychosomatic moral responses.

Plasma bullets streak past my cockpit, snapping me back to reality. I'm not dropping bombs on innocents; I hunt the type who wouldn't think twice. I fire a long pulse at the ship directly in front of me, which pulls up to loop behind me. I twist and turn after him as his comrades shoot for my wings, blasting his tail over and over. The ship shudders and explodes. I roll past, letting my shield absorb some of the excess plasma to recharge it, with the three hostiles hot on my tail. According to my HUD, there's still four. I check my radar, which shows two objects gaining on us fast. The little ship and hostile number four, going way faster than Rocko could even dream of. Their signals merge with those of my pursuers, but I can't see them behind me. They're below my ship.

Without warning, the little ship shoots up behind me, causing the ship chasing him to collide with the pirate in front. The others roll aside, their forcefields flickering from the hot shrapnel, which also hits Rocko and the little ship. The warning lights flash, but cabin pressure holds. I glance behind me. No cargo, no leaking fuel, but there's definitely a breach somewhere. As long as we're all breathing and my butt's not on fire, I guess it can't be too bad.

A crashing thud emanates from my left, and my ship lurches. Iridium and plutonium spill from my left wing's storage containers as a pirate rolls past, clacking his beak over the emergency comms.

The AI squawks over the screaming alarms. "_Warning! Hauler wing damaged. Cargo compromised. Structural damage likely._"

"You think?"

She doesn't hear me.

"_Warning! Hauler wing damaged. Land for immediate repairs. Warning! Hauler wing damaged. Land for immediate repairs. Warning!_"

I so want to slap her programmer.

The second pirate shoots at my right wing, mostly missing, and zooms past, half of his tail gone and sparks flying from his underside. I'm not the current prize. They're after the little ship, whose pilot is attempting to clear his guns as he limps towards a nearby orange planet. Electricity flickers from his missing wing, and key equipment appears to have been torn off the fuselage. I ignore the AI and push Rocko as hard as he will go, fighting malfunctioning controls and sluggish propulsion.

"Come on, Rocko!"

The pirates pounce on the little ship, the stronger one ramming its left while the other dives from behind, filling it with a stream of photon bullets. The little ship violently lurches, seeming to hang completely still before plummeting towards the planet. It spins uncontrollably as it burns through the atmosphere. A distress signal wails through my speakers, and my ship's tracking system follows its doomed trajectory. Oh, God, please. Level out. The pirates do a victory roll, clacking their beaks with gurgling laughs.

"Now the Human."

They turn in unison, and the weaker pirate climbs. I clench my jaw and fire at the stronger one head-on, watching his forcefield spark as he fires at mine. His gives first. The pulse punctures then shatters his cockpit, and he spins out of control beneath me, probably dead. The other ship sends a hail of photon bullets from above, and I brake. He overshoots, and I send a fatal pulse through the injured tail. I don't bother watching the explosion. The only thing that matters is that signal. I push Rocko, feeling his pulse engine cough and vibrate. I check my fuel gage. The levels are fine. Something's wrong with the intake. How did the stupid AI not see that?

Maybe Rocko's not talking to her.

The pulse engine switches off automatically as we enter the atmosphere, hot air flaming past. Maybe the little ship wasn't as bad off as it looked. Maybe its shape just made it look like it was burning. Maybe—

Rocko takes me within thirty yards of the little ship's wreck, landing with a wobbling thud. I unstrap myself and run back to the fuselage, grabbing a medpack and oxygen, before exiting the cockpit door. I tumble to baking desert ground, righting myself with my jetpack, and dash for the ship. Thick black smoke billows from the fuselage, and flames dance through the open cockpit. Its reptilian Vy'keen pilot lies slumped over a cargo crate mere yards away coated in soot, their jetpack and life support lights out. Without the telltale metal beard or twin C'thullu tentacles, I can't tell if they're male or female. I run, praying they're not dead.

The Vy'keen startles as I approach, eyes glazed in pain. Air wheezes from two burned wounds in their upper left chest, which looks caved-in, and their mouth hangs open, gums and three lips a sickly gray, as they breathe in rapid, shallow gasps. I kneel and affix the oxygen mask, adjusting the flow to what I think is a Vy'keen level, about sixty percent of the average human's.

"Hang in there. Voice command, medical scan."

"_Vy'keen male, suffering open pneumothorax with sucking chest wounds and burned lung tissue. Left lung collapsing. Tension pneumothorax imminent. Deploy nanites and perform chest decompression. Is user familiar with this procedure?"_

"No. Walk me through it."

"_Okay. Spread a clean surface and prepare rapid deployment nanite gel._"

This part I'm familiar with. I remove my exosuit gloves and put on the medical ones, spread a self-cleaning medtarp behind the pilot and reach for one of the blue vials, giving the gel a spark from my multi-tool's power pack to activate it. My AI transmits its diagnosis, and the gel glows.

"_Remove malfunctioning life support unit and have patient lie down. Pour nanites onto open wound._"

All right, convince a dying warrior the size of an NFL quarterback to give up his perceived lifeline.

"Okay, name, name—_Yiyan?_"

"Khrelan," he wheezes.

"Okay, Khrelan. Suit—_Lich—Lich tandumoluobo. _I need— _Uwe inhui_—"

"I know Human tongue," he gasps, wincing at the effort.

Thank God, one miracle today. Technically, English is tied with Mandarin Chinese for the most common space-faring language, but I wouldn't expect the average Euclidean to know that. I can't keep up with the names of half the regional Vy'keen languages.

"Your life support is down. I need to get it off so it doesn't get in the way."

He nods, painfully shrugging off the life support/jetpack unit as I disconnect it and help him lie back. I pour the nanites on the wound in front, and they burrow like maggots, making him grunt.

"_Wounds cauterized by superheated impact. Disinfect and dry the surrounding skin. Completely seal one wound._"

I cut aside the singed purple fabric, thankful he's not wearing the usual layers of body armor (which could arguably be how he wound up hyperventilating on a desert planet to begin with) and clean off the soot with the disinfectant fluid. The blackish green wounds gape against orange-brown scales. I place a wad of gauze over the wound on his back and seal it up with a sturdy bandage.

"_Find Asherman Chest Seal. It should be located in compartment F9 of your medpack. Open the package and insert the tube into the open chest wound. This will require upper body strength._"

Code: this is going to hurt. I place the tip in the wound and look for something I can use as a hammer. Nothing in my medpack that doesn't look breakable, but there's a rock to my right that might work.

"Brace yourself."

I bring the stone down hard. The Vy'keen jolts and roars in pain, the sound resonating through his bull-sized mandible horns. He falls back, panting from the exertion, as the trapped air whooshes through the seal.

"_Lung repair at 15%. Chest decompression active._ _Keep patient comfortable and well-hydrated. Observe for further complications._"

Let's hope there aren't any. I wipe the back of my hand against my visor and put my medpack back in order, watching the Vy'keen from the corner of my eye. He closes his eyes, gritting his teeth as if biting back pain. The instructions didn't say to give him any painkiller, but—I grab one of the milder injections, reading the label to make sure it's safe for Vy'keen, and load it into the intravenous delivery tool, a bit like a staple gun with a phlebotomy certification. He winces at the injection, but doesn't make a sound. I don't know if that means he's getting better or worse.

"_Weather warning. Incoming sandstorm._"

I scan the horizon, spotting an ominous wall to the south. A breeze kicks up as if in anticipation. It might have been worth it to pay attention to the ship's planetary scan. I throw everything back into my medpack and glance at the Vy'keen. The guy's probably, what, 280-350 pounds of muscle? No way I can move him. He's going to have to walk. I rouse him and help him sit up.

"Sandstorm's coming. We need to get you inside."

He looks at the storm behind us then looks over my shoulder towards Rocko. "You expect me to climb that?"

I follow his gaze. Rocko is perched on top of a twenty to thirty foot boulder, lightly rocking in the growing wind. Ordinarily, I'd be halfway proud of him, but right now—I rub my hand over my visor.

"Wait here."

Like the guy's going to go hiking in the desert.

I sprint back to the ship, burden lightened without the oxygen tank, and jet up to the cockpit door. Ginger and Latté whistle and shriek, giving me their own weather forecast. I strap myself in to start the engines. Rocko shudders before they cough and die.

"Come on, buddy, don't fail me."

I try again with similar results. I run an emergency diagnostic; just as I thought, intake's damaged, but only for engine one. The rest should be working fine. I try again, sand striking the hull outside, and skip engine one. The engines shudder and whine, acting like they're going to fail. I strike the wall and let out a word that isn't exactly part of church liturgy, to which the engines cough and roar.

I have so much to talk about at my next confession.

I expend the remaining fuel in my launch thruster and move my ship all of thirty feet. I race to the fuselage, opening the cargo door and lowering the ramp as sand sprays my visor. The Vy'keen's already limping towards us, stooped in the wind. I meet him and throw his left arm over my shoulder, supporting his weight. If he thinks it's patronizing, he doesn't say anything. He's too busy blinking dust out of his eyes, third eyelid protecting his eyeballs but not doing much for his vision. A sudden gust almost takes us off our feet. I check the lower left of my HUD; wind speeds of 80 miles an hour with gusts up to 150. I glance at the chest seal. Despite its design, it's becoming choked with sand.

"Come on, big guy! Just ten more feet."

He picks up the pace, panting hard. I'm not going to let him give up. I shout out the distance every few steps, relying on my HUD as the sand grows increasingly thick. Our feet hit the ramp, and I hang onto the railing to keep from losing my footing on the sliding sand. Ginger and Latté warble encouragement from inside.

"Just a few more steps, Khrelan!"

We step inside with a dramatic gust of sand, and Khrelan falls into one of the seats. The wind howls like a beast who has lost its prey. I pry the door from its grip and slam it closed.


	4. Chapter 4

I scrape out the sand clogging Khrelan's chest seal with a pocket knife, trying to keep my hands steady as the Vy'keen draws heaving breaths. The sprint to the ship was probably the last thing he needed, but at least he's still alive. He might wish he was dead, but after investing this much effort, there's no way I'm letting that happen.

After two more scrapes, I'm rewarded with the whisper of outrushing air. Thank God. I wipe the blade on my pants and set it on a nearby ledge before pulling the sanitary wipes from the medpack. My exosuit's gloves tumble out alongside them. Yep, still wearing the medical gloves like a ditz. I take them off and put the exosuit gloves back on, flexing them back into place. There's a reason my sister's the medical professional, besides the whole not being afraid of human blood thing. I'd be the surgeon who leaves her tools in the patient. Just play it cool and act like I know what I'm doing, and the Vy'keen will never notice he has a subpar nurse. At least I'm more pleasant than the nurses he's probably used to, at least if mine was any indicator. The dude had the bedside manner of Dr. McCoy and the gentleness of the Incredible Hulk. At least I think mine was a dude. It's hard to tell with Vy'keen.

Khrelan's breathing starts to slow to normal as the air escapes, or at least as normal as it can be in such circumstances. He begins to visibly relax, slowly casting his eyes around the mess that is my ship. The wind has blown the Tillandsias into the floor, and an impressive sand drift blocks my workbench. At least Latté's former stomach contents aren't on display, and you'd have to have her nose to smell them. I might have to keep some sand for next time.

I check the nanites' progress, 48%, and remove the oxygen mask to clean off the area around Khrelan's mouth and nostrils. Breathing in soot can't be helping.

"You are Jesuit?" Khrelan asks.

He's staring at the wooden crucifix with a decidedly calm expression. Looks like the painkiller's finally kicking in.

"No, Independent Catholic. Mongrels of the faith."

"Mongrels," he mumbles. "Mon-grels."

"Yeah," I say. "Mongrels. Ugly mixed-breed dogs."

He weakly laughs. "Mongrels. Ugly mixed-breeds."

"Hey, not bad. Now you can impress your superiors with your new vocabulary. Just don't blame me if they take it personally."

He gives me the goofiest grin I've ever seen on a Vy'keen. Note to self: I should _never_ be allowed to administer medicine. Ever. At least not to extraterrestrials. It's a wonder Latté can even function at all after dealing with me. If this guy's lucky, he'll come away with only a couple brain cells missing. Hopefully not important ones.

I wipe the ash from his goldenrod faceplates, especially careful to get it out of the tightest spaces. I don't know if Vy'keen actually get zits or blackheads, being reptiles, but I imagine getting them there would be a major inconvenience. Assuming Vy'keen warriors actually care about such things. For all I know, they could consider it character building, or at the very least something only weaklings complain about.

He closes his eyes to let me get his eyelids. Good grief, purple eyelids, amber eyes. This guy's better looking than I am, even with his Dunkleosteus head. Not that I'm a knockout or anything. Okay, definitely not a knockout, but I like to think I'm cute sometimes. Not as cute as my sister, granted, but who can compete with a wavy-haired blonde? At least I can actually tan, thanks to the Tlingit and Alutiiq genes, so there's that, but my dry brunette hair is never going to be anything special.

Now that his face no longer looks like he crawled from an inferno, I check the repairs; 50%.

"Looks like you'll be breathing normally in no time," I say. "Can I get you anything? Water, maybe?"

"Yes, please," he says.

Huh, not barked like an order. If this is how a little painkiller makes all Vy'keen behave, I should drug them more often. Pack a syringe and let 'em have it. Of course, it could be I've stumbled across one of the nice ones. There's a first time for everything.

I get him a canteen, and he drinks in small sips. It probably would've been better to put him on a drip, but I'm fairly certain I don't have the equipment for that. At least the AI didn't say anything about it. Besides, with my lack of training, it probably would've caused more harm than good. It still might be something to look into once I get back to a company station, just in case this situation ever comes up again. Unlikely, but you never know.

He wipes his mouth and hands back the canteen. "Much thanks."

"No problem," I say. "Let me know if you need anything else."

He nods and leans back, closing his eyes with an uneven sigh. Can't say I blame him; after the way the last half of this day has been, I could use some shuteye myself.

I fix his oxygen mask before unfastening my pets. Latté squirms past me and approaches the Vy'keen with a warbling hum, thoroughly sniffing my handiwork before curling up at his side, just like she did when she found me unconscious at my crash site and when we found Ginger bleeding in a ravine. Khrelan's in good paws, or whatever you call lizard feet. Phalanges?

Ginger follows me to the cockpit, casting furtive glances behind us and taking high steps across the hot sand. Her feet are definitely paws, shaped just like a dog's minus the dewclaw. It seems her ancestors never hunted anything. Plantarr was an ideal planet, fair weather, tropical breezes, lush flora, and only herbivores, which made easy pickings for the Vy'keen stationed there. Only the rugged terrain gave their quarry any fair chance. It had been Ginger's salvation, despite the bruised ribs. She dashes ahead of me, not looking back, and squeezes behind the pilot's seat. She's already made her verdict on strictly bipedal species. Despite our subsequent neutral to positive encounters, she only trusts me.

Outside, the world is completely black, obscured by buffeting sand. I turn on the emergency lighting so I can actually see what I'm doing, and am greeted with a smothering wall of billowing sand, trying to scrape its way through the space-proof glass. I know it's irrational, but I can't help but think it's angry, vengeful, seeking gaps in Rocko's defenses. It's not, of course. It's just a natural phenomenon, like the blizzards back home. Still, something about that deep tone the wind makes; it reminds me of the Atlas.

I turn off the light and switch to my flashlight instead, running the detailed diagnostics scan in the dark. It's best to run these in clear conditions, especially considering the static electricity produced by the storm, but I want to have some idea what I'm dealing with once I step outside tomorrow.

Soon, I have a full read-out of all the damaged parts. The most obvious feature is the gaping hole in my left wing, but it's nothing that metal plating can't fix, accompanied by some minor damage to the right wing and tail. It confirms that the intake is busted on engine one, but also highlights damage to engine two and the back-up systems, which will definitely need fixed if I expect to make it back alive. My launch thruster's leaking radioactive fuel all over the place, which would land me a major fine back on Earth. I'm going to need some serious hazard protection to clean up that mess. The only things that aren't shot to pieces are the main structure, landing gear, and hyperdrive unit, which is more than Khrelan can say for his ship. Looks like I'll be giving him a lift back to High Command, or wherever he's stationed. His superiors probably aren't going to be too impressed with him limping back with the help of a weak-minded Interloper, but I could always use the brownie points.

I lean back in my seat and prop my feet against the window, listening to the low thrum outside and the Vy'keen's deep breathing. For a moment, I wonder if I've saved him just so he'll die anyway, if we'll both die with this ship as our coffin, but it's the wind talking, playing on my nerves. The Atlas is powerful, but not that powerful. At least, I don't think so. I guess I'll find out either way.


	5. Chapter 5

_Dear Sis,_

_If you've never been stuck in a sandstorm, you're not missing much. It's basically like a blizzard, but hotter, and can probably blast the paint right off your Tesla, or at least the sandstorm I'm currently in. My ship will probably need repainted after this, and probably quite a bit more work thanks to the friendly neighborhood pirates. (I'm fine, just ticked.) At least with the Vy'keen they shot down, I'm not alone on this spinning rock. You'll be proud of me; I performed a chest decompression with an AI's guidance, and the dude actually lived. What do you think; should I apply for med school after this?_

Ginger noses my discarded helmet against my leg, waking me up drooling on the unfinished letter. America's "Sergeant Darkness" plays quietly over the cockpit speakers, and sunlight streams in from a dusty yellow sky with cigar-shaped flying fish overhead. I check the solar chronometer; about 11:30 planet time. So much for an early start. I wipe the saliva off and check the planetary scan.

**Erpinyamatr-Praak**

Atmosphere: Breathable

Climate: Arid, severe sandstorms

Terrain: Dunes, canyons

Resources: Variable

Flora: Low

Fauna: Average

Looks like we'll be dealing with more geovores. Figures. At least we won't be competing for air. On the last planet I visited with low flora and livable oxygen levels, all the animals breathed CO2. Probably the same story here. As long as they don't mistake me for a mobile plant, we'll be golden. Not that I couldn't take them if I had to, especially with a Vy'keen for backup.

Speaking of which—

I stretch and head to the fuselage with Ginger close behind. Even after his close call, I imagine Khrelan will be up before me. Vy'keen are nothing if not regimented.

Sure enough, he's gone, along with the mounds of sand. The entire place has been swept clean, and the crucifix dusted and rehung. Everything else is stacked neatly on my workbench, including the Tillandsias. I give them a spritz from my suit's water supply and put them back in their places, the ticklish purple one squirming in my fingers and the midnight blue one humming as it absorbs the moisture. Theirs was a beautiful lush world, its canopy singing and writhing in the storms. Latté enjoyed helping me poke around the underbrush for fallen specimens.

Outside, I hear her happy whistle accompanying the sound of a mining beam. I open the door to a wave of heat, making Ginger retreat to the relative cool of the cockpit. I seal the door behind her and step down the ramp. Latté sits under my recently excavated hauler wing, supervising Khrelan as he vaporizes tons of sand in mere seconds. He jumps down in the oddly stable hole, lugging out the crate followed by his life-support/jetpack unit. He clearly has his priorities straight. The mission comes first, whatever it is. As long as it can't bite me or blow me up, I don't really care what's in there. When it comes to alien cargo, the less you get involved, the better. Don't even ask about the Porwiggle[1] incident.

"How's your lung?" I ask.

Khrelan gives me a thumbs up. "Good. _Iyuanpin_ also fixed my suit."

"I assume you're talking about the nanites and not the lizard." Last I knew, her bloodlike healing secretions only work on flesh.

Khrelan laughs. "He tried. He doesn't know colors."

"Actually, she," I correct. "Her name's Latté. The shy one's Ginger. Also female."

"Ginger, like gingerbread. Like Christmas."

There's that goofy grin again, like some kid who found the last Oreo. I can't help but laugh. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're an Earthling."

He makes a scoffing growl. "I could eat Earth warriors like Grahberry."

_Yep, just like you did those Gek_, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. The guy's pride has been damaged enough already. No point in twisting the knife. Though to be fair, I have no idea how many pirates he shot down before I arrived. "Yeah, well this Grahberry pulled your butt out of a really sticky situation."

That was clearly so much better.

Khrelan stares at me a second, rubbing his chin. "Did I bleed that much?"

Not quite the answer I was expecting. I forget how literal Vy'keen can be. "Uh, a bit. Mostly internal, I think. You were too busy dying for me to notice."

His expression softens. "Good for me you are more than a warrior."

"I'm only a warrior when I have to be."

"That is best kind."

Now I know he's missing brain cells. Not that I'm complaining.

I hold out my hand. "The name's Verity."

He gives me a firm handshake. "Khrelan Ozemkar-Straak Barghast."

A full name. In Vy'keen culture, that's a high honor. I should probably reciprocate.

"Verity Renee Lyon."

"Ver-i-tee Re-nay Lee-on," he says in that growling baritone peculiar to Vy'keen. "Veri-tee. It is a good name."

"Thanks. I'm fond of it. Not the Renee bit, but the rest of it."

He laughs. "I do not like Straak or Barghast."

"Lousy meaning or lousy ancestor?"

"Both."

Look at that. We're bonding already. Though to be honest, I'd rather bond over a cup of coffee in a climate-controlled space station. Was it really just yesterday I had that luxury? I seriously need to look into getting a freighter at some point. Have Scotty beam us up out of this mess. Like I'm ever going to afford that.

"I take it your ship's not salvageable," I say.

"Some parts maybe," he says.

I motion to Rocko. "Stow your cargo and make yourself at home. There's a workbench if you need it. Ginger won't bother you."

"Much thanks," he says.

He gently lifts the crate and carries it with a great deal of reverence. Probably hauling ancient artifacts. Pirates have a habit of going after religious relics, after all. You'd be amazed how much unscrupulous Earth collectors will pay for a Vy'keen idol. Last I heard, Hirk was going for the same price as a converted vintage Lamborghini. Personally, I wouldn't pay two cents for that ugly mug; oversized metal beard, outstretched facial tentacles, more horns than Satan. No thank you. Assuming that's what he really looked like. I think the priests exaggerated a few things in the retellings, kind of like Jesus being white or Buddha having prediabetes.

Latte stretches and follows me as I do a preliminary walk around and check the cargo in the hauler wings. Like I thought, the left wing is pretty much empty, its cargo likely orbiting somewhere above our heads. The right wing is pretty much intact, though I plan to make a few quick repairs to keep the geovores from smelling the goodies inside. Thank God I had the sense to stow my cake in the fuselage. If they would've got that, I'd be ready to scream. Though, that's probably what the pirates were really going after, at least if they're anything like me. Who cares about practicality when chocolate is at stake?

I make my way to the engine next, struggling to undo a latch made for someone a lot stronger and taller than me. Why on Earth didn't I get a Gek or a Korvax ship? I had this problem the first time around, too, but at least then I'd had a nifty rock to stand on. Shows you my lack of future planning.

I hear heavy footsteps crunching across the sand, and turn to see Khrelan coming up behind me.

"Need help?" he asks.

"What's it look like?"

"Like your ship is Vy'keen."

The guy says it with such genuine frankness that it makes me feel more than a little guilty. Seriously, it's not his fault I'm hangry. I'm the dumb butt who decided not to eat her underwhelming breakfast. Though the thought of that nutrient mush makes me want to puke at the moment. "Some help would be great actually."

Khrelan does the heavy lifting, while I do the fiddly work. I'm sure he's perfectly capable, but it's an unspoken code that you don't touch another pilot's ship without their express permission. Just like I let him pull useful parts from the guts of his wreckage. It's easier to tell who goofed if something goes wrong.

The fishlike flyers swoop down to get a better look at us, rumbling low-pitched tones as if giving suggestions. Somehow I get the feeling we're not the first crashes they've seen, but possibly the first survivors. It seems to never dawn on them we could be a threat. Khrelan eyes them as if sizing them up for a future meal.

By the time evening comes, we have both wings patched and about half of the engine repairs finished. Most of the parts I'll need to fabricate on the onboard 3D printer tonight, but thanks to Khrelan's wreck I still have plenty of hermetic seals. We sit on the right wing and eat our meager rations in silence, watching the sun paint the horizon orange. You know, it's funny. This whole time I've wanted someone else on board, and now that I do I have no idea what to talk about.

"You never told me your rank," I say.

He's quiet for a moment. "Liquidator," he says. "My rank is Liquidator, First Class."

He clenches and unclenches his jaw, seeing the ghosts of battles and fallen comrades. I probably should have known better than to bring it up, but most Vy'keen seem so proud of their military service.

"My brother was a sergeant when he was killed," I say quietly. "Space Marine, defending colonists. My—my mother doesn't like me being up here."

He gives me a long look. "You are heroes, yes?"

"He was."

Khrelan breaks his gaze, looking back at the dying sun. "Then I am nothing like him."

* * *

[1] Gek are amphibians like frogs, so their Porwiggle offspring are basically beaked tadpoles ranging anywhere in size from a pet goldfish to a Chinook salmon. Having a bunch of those flopping all over the floor isn't fun, even if it isn't your fault they wound up there. (Glares at Latté.) No deaths or major injuries, at least, though paying for specialist pediatric treatment for twenty youngsters wasn't easy on the bank account. Thus why I always strap my pets in before taking on extra cargo and passengers, not that I'm in the habit of hauling either anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

You know, it's funny. I don't think about my brother that often. Losing the person who hid fish eyeballs in your socks and taught you how to throw a punch should be a big deal, but for me it wasn't, or at least not as much as it should have been. Being out here, it's easy enough to pretend he's just another person who doesn't write, that his death was one of his elaborate practical jokes. A joke that the entire family is in on, granted, but still, not being able to return for the funeral makes the illusion plausible enough to maintain.

But between being crashed on an alien world and overhearing Khrelan's fitful growls and murmurs, I can't help but think about him, blasted to bits defending a galaxy he someday hoped to call home. About like me almost getting vaporized and stranding myself in the middle of a wasteworld to rescue a downed alien. I don't know, maybe we're both as crazy as our dad, too busy keeping our heads in the stars to actually think about the people back on Earth. But at least we're doing something more than fixing some trillionaire's orbital resort.

Were doing something more. I still can't get that in my head.

I turn on some music to get my mind off it, and the first thing that comes on is Pink Floyd, my brother's favorite band. It's almost like he's saying he can't get it in his head either.

If I believed in ghosts, I could almost see him floating around out there wondering what the crap happened. Purgatory, Heaven, wherever he wound up, he's probably still asking the same thing. To be named Sage, he could be pretty dense sometimes.

Granted, this is coming from one of the densest people he claimed he ever met. He said that about Chastity, too, easily the smartest of the bunch. There's a reason she's making the big bucks, by Earth standards anyway. She's too idealistic to bail out.

Me, I'm a realist. As much as I love the old homeworld, there's no future there for me. Same for my brother. While Chastity dreamed of healing the sick (for an exorbitant fee), we plotted our escape to the stars.

Is that really what he was? A realist? No, no one dies for realism. People die for dreams, for passions. Realism keeps its head down and tries to stay out of trouble. He never did that. He was the kind of person where if you pushed him, he pushed back harder. Knock him down, he came up swinging. If you could knock him down to begin with. Yet all it took was one measly marauder, one lucky shot to put him down permanently.

I guess that's why I can't believe he's really dead.

I don't think morning comes soon enough for either of us. Before the sun even thinks about crossing the horizon, I hear Khrelan tinkering with his jetpack, and I get up to check the 3D printer's progress.

"No sleep either?" he says.

I must look stunning. "That obvious, huh?"

"Your eyes," he motions under his own. "They have night shadow, like sick Gek."

Boy, he knows how to make a girl feel good. "Do you talk to all women like that?"

"Like what?" he asks.

Typical guy, oblivious. "Never mind."

I turn to the 3D printer. Nine of ten parts finished, ninety-nine percent done on the last one. It's amazing how smooth the technology is. You'd never guess this intake valve wasn't made in an orbital factory somewhere.

"Did I step on human taboo?" Khrelan asks.

The printer beeps to let me know it's finished. "Kind of. Humans aren't as blunt as Vy'keen, especially when it comes to women."

"Women like lies, you mean."

"No," I switch off the printer. "We're just accustomed to them."

A look of pity crosses his face. "That is sad way to live."

"Yeah, but it is a way."

He shakes his head, murmuring something in Vy'keen. "Turpanq would rather be hard than dishonest."

"Oh, come on," I say. "Surely you don't say everything that's on your mind."

"No, but then we keep quiet."

We stare at each other for a moment. You know, for some bizarre reason, I actually believe him.

"Would you like some breakfast or something?" I ask.

He grins. "Yes, please."

And here I am falling into my stereotypical gender role.

I retrieve the chocolate cake from the cargo hold, slightly smooshed to one side from the impact, and cut us both a large piece.

Khrelan's eyes widen. "Isn't this delicacy?"

"Supposed to be," I say, licking the knife. "This one's synthetic." And it tastes like it, too.

He mimics the way I hold my fork, clearly unaccustomed to using utensils, and takes a bite, closing his eyes as if to assess the flavor.

"It tastes like Grahberry," he says, "but fake. And bitter."

Latté comes over, drowsy for once, and sniffs at our plates.

"What do you think, girl?" I give her a small piece.

She chomps on it, lips smacking, and spits the gooey bit out on the floor. Clearly not a fan. Khrelan laughs.

I try it next. Yeah, it's bitter alright, so much so it makes my face want to fold in, like the chocolate chunks solely designed for baking. I get a drink of water and scrape my tongue against my teeth, like bears do when they eat something nasty. Which makes Khrelan laugh even harder.

"At least they tried," I say. "And the glaze is tolerable."

"It is the best part," he agrees.

Guess I'll never order dark chocolate again.

"You can have the rest if you want," I say.

"You are sure?"

I nod. "I just want the glaze."

He lets me scrape most the glaze off before I give the rest of the cake to him. Even the cherry isn't quite cherry, but it's close enough I don't mind. Happy birthday, Ver. Another disappointment as usual. Not that mom can help it.

Ginger skulks in, still avoiding Khrelan, and licks the spat-up bit off the floor. At least one of us really likes it. Khrelan holds out a piece towards her before dropping it on the floor. She sniffs it suspiciously before finally deciding it's okay.

"She is wary," he says.

"Yeah, she doesn't trust people," I say. "Especially Vy'keen."

Khrelan nods. "We are much to get used to."

"Especially the ones that run around shooting everything."

"Plenty of humans like that, too," he says.

"True."

I know of employees who treat exploration like an extended hunting safari. Technically not illegal, but Everyman claims no responsibility if Sentinels kill you. Personally, I'm with the Sentinels on that one. Anyone with a mounted blob collection is sick.

Hunting to eat, that's another story. Sage and I used to be the main ones to fill the family deep freeze before winter, and my grandmother's. I would try my hand here if I knew what was edible. Eat the wrong thing, and you're looking at kidney stones, intestinal ruptures, or even liver failure. Some of the parasites can get pretty nasty, too. There's a reason most of us stick to the mush.

I get up to put my plate in the carbon recycler and put my utensils in the UV unit.

"I've got a lot of work, if you don't mind."

Khrelan stands. "I will help."

He's definitely one of the most useful people I've met in a while, I'll give him that.

Khrelan drops a slice of cake in the floor and stows the rest. Ginger grabs it as we head out the door.

We scare a herd of quadrupeds congregated around the ship, trumpeting bellowing warning calls from their giant crests. Several smaller ones burst from beneath the ship, galloping to catch up with the main group. All the plutonium-laden sand is gone, leaving the rest uncontaminated.

"There's one less mess to clean up," I say.

Khrelan grunts.

The rest of the repairs really are best for smaller hands, though I need Khrelan's help manhandling the latch and keeping the engine in place. It's amazing all the moving parts spacecraft have, and all the stuff you need to disconnect just to fix one little thing. You'd think Vy'keen would make stuff more efficient, but I guess there's a reason Rocko's crew left him behind. I mention it to Khrelan.

"Older model," he says. "Replaced two star cycles ago with di-hydrogen model."

"You a mechanic?" I ask.

He smiles. "As a hobby."

"Sounds like you should be the one fixing this."

A gleam comes to his eye. "Do you want me to?"

He looks like a little kid who's just been promised a new toy for Christmas. How can I say no to that? "Sure, why not?"

That silly grin comes to his face, and he gets right to work. All I have to do is make sure the engine cover doesn't hit him in the back of the head. He's a lot more efficient than I am, even with his man hands (though surprisingly small for a Vy'keen's), seeming to know every part of this engine better than I do. He's probably the kind of guy who reads technical journals on his time off, like how I used to from middle school through college. Dad would always bring me the latest specs released to the public, and I'd devour them, hoping to have my own spacecraft someday. In the long run, learning about Earth tech only proved moderately helpful, but at least it was something. Everything I know about Vy'keen tech comes from practical experience, though my knowledge is still severely lacking. Better than my knowledge of Korvax tech, though I don't think anyone outside the Korvax really understand their stuff. Those who claim to just have oversized egos.

Khrelan finishes his repairs and double-checks my earlier fixes. After a lunch, he turns his attention to the hyperdrive and landing gear, showing me a few faulty parts I hadn't noticed, and we scavenge parts from his old ship. Between the hot sand and the sun beating down on us, I'm really feeling the part of the shipwrecked survivor, but between Khrelan's easy laugh and wealth of knowledge, I actually find myself enjoying it. Man, if he'd died—

By the time we're finished, Rocko is probably in better condition than when he came out of the factory, minus the external damage, that is. Khrelan says once I get him to a Vy'keen space station, they have a fix for that, though he says it in a way that makes me think he isn't looking forward to going back there. With all the flak he'll probably get from colleagues and superiors, no wonder.

Inside, Ginger has figured out how to get into the cake, lying next to the remainder with a self-satisfied grin. Latté gives me a look saying for once she's really innocent.

Surprisingly, Khrelan laughs. "She is resourceful one, isn't she?"

"Actually, she's never done anything like this before," I say.

"Because you are her master. I am bottom rung."

She seems to smile wider at this, almost as if she meant to put the Vy'keen in his place.

"Ginger," I scold.

Her tongue lolls out, laughing. She knows I won't do anything. I cut off the eaten parts and stow the cake somewhere I know she can't get to. The nut's got another thing coming if she thinks I'm going to let her finish it. Though Khrelan will probably just give it to her anyway. For a Vy'keen, he seems completely non-assertive that way.

We go in the cockpit for an engine check.

"The fuel tank is almost empty," he says.

My heart sinks. Crap. The plutonium. I check my manifest. Sure enough, almost all I had leaked out somewhere in space. And the geovores ate what was left in the sand.

I sink back in the pilot's seat and rub the bridge of my nose.

"Looks like we're not going anywhere soon," I say.


End file.
